the opportunity to have another ex-con off her hands, and asked me which one I had in mind. ‘Marita,’ I responded, quickly adding, before she said no, ‘I am also very keen for my son to learn what I feel is an important South African language. Unfortunately my Afrikaans knowledge is dismal at best. Marita is the best speaker of that language I have come across – apart from yourself of course,’ I ended, with a flourish. Obviously I had pressed the right button because the coordinator’s face, which had become rather pinched when I mentioned Marita’s name, lit up. ‘What exactly would she be doing?’ she asked.
Knowing the sensitivities of South African society, new South African or not, and knowing equally well that I would never be allowed to cross the line of having a white woman for a maid, I deliberately fudged, ‘I know that she has been doing some sewing and I have a cottage where she can do that and perhaps market her clothes. In return she could also help me, in her free time, to pick my son up from school and tutor him Afrikaans and his other homework.’
The coordinator seemed to like the idea. ‘We just need to ask Marita,’ she said, sending someone to call her.
When Marita came in the coordinator said sternly, ‘Marita. This lady wants you to come and help tutor her son in Afrikaans while you are staying with her. How do you feel about that?’ So she was primarily a tutor now. But I was not going to make corrections and I knew I had it in the bag when Marita said, in her thick Afrikaans accent, ‘Really? I can come and stay with you? Oh thank you so much madam. Thank you, thank you.’ She had called me madam! The only people who call me ‘madam’ are Mandla’s friends and they say it in a denigrating way. I thought, ‘I like this girl. Yeah. I could definitely work with her!’
With the deal done, I walked out with Marita, who was still calling me madam, to Siz and Hintsa. ‘She sure knows her place – Lauren would like her too,’ Siz whispered to me as I got close to her. I nudged her and muttered, ‘Shuddup . . .’
Marita may have called me ‘madam’ but her job was not secure yet. I had to make sure she got on with the ‘prince’, who would be doing most of the interaction with her. I introduced them, and Hintsa smiled at her shyly. She managed to coax him into a conversation, and soon they were having an intense discussion about what happened in the last episode of DragonBallZ.
Away from the coordinator, I explained that she would have her own cottage, furnished with a bed, pots, plates, fridge and stove, and that she would have to help me out with hanging the laundry and ironing and cleaning the house, in addition to taking Hintsa back and forth to nursery school. ‘Is that okay?’ I asked, searching her face for signs of protest to my generosity. Instead, what I saw was a face that lit up with delight.
‘It is. It is, and thank you for thinking of me,’ she answered with enthusiasm.
‘But aren’t you going to have a problem with people referring to you as a maid for kaffirs?’ I asked, wanting to get it out of the way.
Marita flinched visibly when I used the k-word and said, ‘Sorry madam, please don’t use words like that around me, ne?’ It was obvious she was being genuine. ‘The only people who have been really good to me are black people. I even voted for the ANC in the last election and would have done the same in the last two elections if I hadn’t been in prison.’ Siz, who was watching from the sidelines, playing with Hintsa and pretending not to pay attention, laughed.
Siz knows how I dislike it when white people try too hard to show that they are liberal; I find it insincere. How did Marita even know I was pro-ANC since we had never talked politics? (Although it would be difficult to find any middle-class black person who is strongly anti-ANC at this moment in time.)
What the heck though, at least I would have a maid who had passed Standard Nine, had passable English and would be able to read Hintsa Aesop’s Fables when I stayed late at the office. She would also be able to help him with his alphabet and other little pre-school homeworks. And since my knowledge of Afrikaans was, as I had told the coordinator, almost non-existent, she would definitely be handy to have around should Afrikaans become one of the eleven official languages the little man wants to learn. ‘Okay then. Consider yourself hired,’ I told her.
I arranged to come and pick Marita up the following Saturday. This would, hopefully, give her sufficient time to pack.
‘Ag, sorry to bother you madam, but I don’t have any bags,’ Marita said meekly. ‘Can you mos lend me some?’
Here was my chance to get my future maid to think I was the greatest person on earth, while getting Mandla to think I had actually consulted him on a ready-made decision about the maid. ‘I can do better than that,’ I told her. ‘I’ll go buy some and my husband will bring them to you tomorrow, is that all right?’
‘Baie dankie, madam. Oh thank you so much,’ she gushed.
Hintsa, Siz and I immediately made tracks to Eastgate to test the power of plastic. By mid-afternoon, we had amassed loads of bags full of shoes and the little man was complaining that he was tired. ‘That’s why I never want to come with you and Aunt Siz, mommy!’ They grow up so fast these children – now when did this boy learn to talk in absolutes? ‘How dare you say never to your mummy, boy?’ I playfully spanked his bum.
Siz smiled and said I should celebrate the joys of motherhood. Hers was a sad, longing, smile. I knew she wanted children judging from the way she spoilt her godson, nephew, and Lauren’s children – not to mention the Vuyos 2 and 3, who she didn’t even like – but the gods had not been so kind to her. And the mothers of her stepchildren showed her absolutely no respect or gratitude for all she was doing for their offspring.
Munchies led us to Ocean Basket because I was craving mussels. ‘Girl you know I hate all that pretentious black people eating seafood crap, but just this once, since we are celebrating your madamhood, I will put up with it.’ Unlike me, Siz is seriously lacking in adventure as far as food is concerned. If it’s not beef, chicken or fish, she ain’t having it. The food was good, the wine was better and the conversation was, as usual, highly controversial. I think Siz and I probably talk too much politics because more than once Hintsa has chipped in with his little opinion about the land question, white people or BEE, and I know it was not really a five-year old’s opinion but something he had overheard. Siz was, naturally, impressed, ‘I wish the junior Vuyos could be more like your boy.’
‘Nu-uh. Siz, I think we are talking too much politics around this boy. I don’t want him expelled from pre-school for airing our prejudices. Besides, Hintsa would probably be more subdued if he had an evil stepmother like you,’ I teased.
I called Mandla to check in. ‘Whatcha doing?’ I asked.
‘Some boys from Soweto just dropped by and we’re having a few beers. Can you grab us some food, babes?’
Now I was not too anxious to get home. Unfortunately, Siz had to leave and I could not stay at the mall indefinitely, so I suggested to Hintsa that we go video-shopping at Game and thereafter lock ourselves in mommy and daddy’s room with home-made buttered popcorn, liquorice and juice and watch some great cartoons.
As we walk to the parking lot my son looks up at me and tugs my hand.
‘You know the nursery rhymes that I have at school?’ I nod. He continues, ‘Well, I have been thinking, if Jack Sprat’s wife ate no lean, and Jack Sprat ate no fat, that would mean they did not eat well, right?’
‘Yes baby. I am sure Jack Sprat and his wife did not have a balanced diet.’ I laughed to myself: is the child a future psychiatrist or philosopher, or maybe just a really insightful head of state?
‘Does
